A ferry was leaving the immigrant station, a murmur rustled through the crowd that packed the edges of the wharf. “Deportees.... It’s the communists the Department of Justice is having deported ... deportees ... Reds.... It’s the Reds they are deporting.” The ferry was out of the slip. In the stern a group of men stood still tiny like tin soldiers. “They are sending the Reds back to Russia.” A handkerchief waved on the ferry, a red handkerchief. People tiptoed gently to the edge of the walk, tiptoeing, quiet like in a sickroom.
Behind the backs of the men and women crowding to the edge of the water, gorillafaced chipontheshoulder policemen walked back and forth nervously swinging their billies.
“They are sending the Reds back to Russia.... Deportees.... Agitators.... Undesirables.” ... Gulls wheeled crying. A catsupbottle bobbed gravely in the little ground-glass waves. A sound of singing came from the ferryboat getting small, slipping away across the water.
C’est la lutte finale, groupons-nous et demain
L’Internationale sera le genre humain.
“Take a look at the deportees.... Take a look at the undesirable aliens,” shouted the man with the telescopes and fieldglasses. A girl’s voice burst out suddenly, “Arise prisoners of starvation,” “Sh.... They could pull you for that.”
The singing trailed away across the water. At the end of a marbled wake the ferryboat was shrinking into haze. International ... shall be the human race. The singing died. From up the river came the longdrawn rattling throb of a steamer leaving dock. Gulls wheeled above the dark dingydressed crowd that stood silently looking down the bay.
II. Nickelodeon
A nickel before midnight buys tomorrow ... holdup headlines, a cup of coffee in the automat, a ride to Woodlawn, Fort Lee, Flatbush.... A nickel in the slot buys chewing gum. Somebody Loves Me, Baby Divine, You’re in Kentucky Juss Shu’ As You’re Born ... bruised notes of foxtrots go limping out of doors, blues, waltzes (We’d Danced the Whole Night Through) trail gyrating tinsel memories.... On Sixth Avenue on Fourteenth there are still flyspecked stereopticons where for a nickel you can peep at yellowed yesterdays. Beside the peppering shooting gallery you stoop into the flicker A Hot Time, The Bachelor’s Surprise, The Stolen Garter ... wastebasket of tornup daydreams.... A nickel before midnight buys our yesterdays.